


Perpetual Trickle

by Cade Welentine (cadewelentine)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Cecilos Angst, Comfort, Gen, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadewelentine/pseuds/Cade%20Welentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is everything up to your standards, Steve?" Cecil inquired.<br/>"Yeah, but, Cecil, can we talk?"<br/>"I suppose, if we must."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perpetual Trickle

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever full fledged Night Vale fic!  
> I hope you enjoy it. It's rather intimidating posting things in a fandom with so many talented authors. :D  
> I'm always looking to improve, so please feel free to leave any comments you have!

For Cecil, it was a day like any other.

  
He’d woken up to the sound of birds outside his window, and he’d smiled at their familiar buzzing and beeping. He rose and showered, slathering vanilla scented shower gel over tan skin decorated with purple ink until he was covered in suds, which he rinsed off with heated water. If he stood at just the right angle, he could feel the memory of Carlos’ skin against his, warm and slippery and just real enough to be a comfort. He leaned against the tiled wall, his fist curling weakly against it. He stood that way for a long time. Eventually, he righted himself and turned the water off to its perpetual trickle-per the instructions of the City Council, though he’d long forgotten the reasoning for it.

  
Cecil stepped out of his shower, wrapping a faded purple towel around his waist as he stood in the steamy bathroom. He’d forgotten to turn the fan on before he stepped in, and the window was fogged up. The mirror, had it not been covered, would have been fogged as well, but that was a moot point for Cecil.

  
In his room, he slid into a pair of boxers, then fumbled through his closet, trying to put together a halfway decent outfit. Should he go casual with a flannel thrown over an old community radio shirt? It would be comfortable, and he and Intern Maureen could be twins that way. But he could also go with a button down and tie, which would be tied at perfect tension between tight and loose so that he looked businessy and professional, but not in an uptight way. Of course, there was always the option of a loose t-shirt, which he could curl up in as he read the news, tucking his legs close to his chest and pulling his arms in through the sleeves. He hadn’t even begun to think about pants yet- although, if he went with the baggy t-shirt he’d forgo pants all together; Maureen would just have to deal in that situation.

  
Cecil was laying shirts out on the bed when he heard the knock at the door. He grumbled under his breath, silently cursing whoever decided it was appropriate to visit him this early in the morning. He hadn’t even had his coffee yet this morning; who would expect him to even be willing to talk them before that?  
Begrudgingly, Cecil trudged to the door, neglecting to put on any more clothes. He pulled the door open, hoping that it wouldn’t be Old Woman Josie on the other side, waiting to see him in nothing but his boxers.

  
Fortunately, it was not Old Woman Josie on the other side.

  
Unfortunately, it was Steve Carlsberg.

  
And he hadn’t even brought Janice.

  
“Hiya, Cecil!” Steve grinned, his voice much too chipper for this time of day. He noticed Cecil’s clothes- or lack thereof- and quickly added, “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

  
“What do you want, Steve Carlsberg?” Cecil demanded, teeth gritted.

  
“Abby wanted me to come over and make sure everything was all set for Janice to stay with you this weekend.” Steve explained.

  
“Well, you can tell my sister that everything is all ready.” Cecil said cooly, already starting to shut the door. Steve stuck his foot out, stopping the door from closing all the way.  
Cecil sighed loudly, pulling the door back open.

  
“What?” he groaned.

  
“Abby wants me to look around.” Steve said. “Make sure everything is _actually_ all set.”

  
Cecil muttered something under his breath. It sounded to Steve as though he were talking about his sister, and as her husband, he decided not to pay it too much mind, but he thought he heard the phrases, “Doesn’t trust me-” and “Just because I’m the youngest doesn’t mean I’m not responsible”. Cecil opened the door despite his muttering, and Steve followed him into the apartment, closing the door behind him.

  
“You know, Ceese,” he started casually. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in your apartment before.”

  
“There’s a reason for that, Steve Carlsberg.” Cecil replied. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to get dressed.”

  
“Go ahead.” Steve nodded. “I’m just gonna take a look around.”

  
“Don’t touch anything.” Cecil warned, earning a frantic nod from Steve before he disappeared into his bedroom.

  
Cecil’s apartment was made up of three rooms; a bedroom with an attaching bathroom, and a much larger, open room that held the little den area and the kitchen. Steve kept his hands folded neatly behind his back as he walked around the little apartment. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for; Abby had just said he would “know it when you find it”.

  
Cecil sure seemed to like the color purple. And various shades of black and gray and white. The whole place was decked out in the color scheme.

  
Several silver picture frames held snapshots from various points in Cecil’s life. One had a picture of Cecil with a young Janice slung over his shoulders. The one beside it held a photograph of Abby on their wedding day, all done up in her dress, desert flowers woven into her white-blond hair. In those two photos, Steve could really see the familial resemblance. The three shared the same deep tan, and the same silvery, nearly white hair. Their noses were the same, each one long and straight. The differences set in at the eyes. Where Janice and Abby had violet pupils, Cecil’s eyes were almost as white as his hair, and there was the matter of the third one, sitting in the middle of his forehead.  
Steve moved his gaze to the next picture, which had Cecil standing between Mayor Cardinal and Intern Maureen. The mayor looked thrilled to pieces, the intern looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else, and the radio host looked somewhere between the two extremes. The image made Steve smile; it was good to see Cecil spending time with other people. The picture underneath that one had a crack running down the middle, as if the frame had been dropped but never replaced. In that frame sat a picture of Carlos working away at some experiment or another. The photo was taken from a distance, which made Steve think that it was taken without the scientist’s knowledge. Knowing Cecil, that wouldn’t be incredibly surprising.

  
Steve moved on from the bookshelf to the kitchen. The kitchen was tiny. with barely enough room for the fridge and the stove and the little counter space that there was within it. There was a toaster, which was now useless thanks to the wheat ban, sitting on the counter. Steve could see that Cecil had tried to make it more decorative, sticking forks within the slits that used to take bread. It looked nice, very post-modern.

  
Steve wasn’t sure what compelled him to open the fridge, but something did. He yanked the door open, finding the usual container of purple jello sitting on the top shelf. Beside it sat half a stick of butter and a slice of Big Rico’s that must’ve been there since before the wheat ban and appeared to be gaining sentience. He carefully pulled it out, dumping it in the garbage and hoping that it wouldn’t crawl out on it’s own. Below the top shelf was a nearly empty carton of milk and a nearly full container of J.P.’s OJ. The bottom shelf was empty, but the door was lined with beers. That in itself wasn’t that strange, but prompted Steve to look in the cabinets.

  
There was a nearly empty bottle of vodka in the cabinet above the sink with a full, new one sitting beside it. Steve glanced in the recycling bin, finding another empty bottle of vodka accompanied by several bottles of beer.

  
Steve drew a sharp breath.

  
Abby was right.

  
He had found it.

  
“Is everything up to your standards, Steve?” Cecil inquired, stepping out from his room, fully dressed. He had gone with a purple pinstripe button down with a matching purple tie and black slacks.

  
“Yeah.” Steve nodded. “But, Cecil, can we talk?”

  
“I suppose, if we must.” Cecil sighed, leaning against the frame of his couch. He had a hand half in his pocket, so that his elbow was bent and his fingers were hidden by the fabric, his thumb hooked in one of the belt loops.

  
“You sure miss Carlos, huh?” Steve started.

  
“You found the bottles, didn’t you?” Cecil guessed, cutting Steve off.

  
“Yeah.” Steve nodded.

  
“Don’t worry about it.” Cecil shrugged it off. “It hasn’t been as bad since I came back from vacation.”

  
“That doesn’t really- that’s not exactly what Abby would call comforting.” Steve told him. “Look, Cecil, there’re people who care about you, a lot. I mean, just look at your pictures over there. Every one in those pictures cares about you. Abby, Dana, Maureen, Carlos...Janice. And I’m not in any of your pictures, but I care about you too.”

  
“Don’t worry about it.” Cecil insisted, his voice a little firmer. “I’m not going to drink around Janice. I would _never_.”

  
“That’s not what I’m trying to say, Ceese-” Steve tried. He faltered, his mind racing a mile a minute as he tried to put it in words the radio host would understand.

  
“Putting your feelings for me aside,” Steve started carefully. “If I were trapped in a strange desert otherworld, leaving your sister behind, and she started drinking, even just a little more than usual, wouldn’t you worry?”

  
“Abby’s an adult.” Cecil said, dropping his steely gaze so that he was focused on their shoes rather than his brother-in-law’s eyes. “She can make her own decisions.”

  
“So you wouldn’t be the slightest bit concerned about her, in this hypothetical situation?” Steve pressed.

  
“You really seem to want to know how this hypothetical situation plays out, Steve Carlsberg,” Cecil said warily. “You’d better not be planning on leaving my sister.”

  
“Cecil, don’t change the subject.” Steve scowled. “I’m trying to show you how other people feel when we hear you on the radio, talking about all the nothingness that seems to consume your days. And then how we feel when we find you’ve got more alcohol than food in the house- have you even been eating- and that you’ve been bringing a flask to work and spiking your coffee-”

  
“I’m just drinking to forget!” Cecil protested.

  
“But what are you trying to forget?” Steve demanded. “Municipally disapproved actions, or your feelings?”

  
Cecil was quiet for a long time. The room was silent, save for their breathing and the perpetual trickles of water coming from every faucet in the apartment. Steve couldn’t help but equate it to the perpetual trickle of liquor making its way down Cecil’s gullet at every hour of the day.

  
“You don’t understand what it feels like to be alone.” Cecil said finally, his voice barely a whisper.

  
“You’re not alone,” Steve said, pointing at the pictures. “You have Dana, and Maureen-”

  
“Dana owns me!” Cecil cried. “She keeps using me to save her against, or-or without, my will. And Maureen keeps dying, and I just know that sooner or later she’s going to die for good or quit and I’ll be back to being all alone again.”

  
“What about Abby and Janice?” Steve attempted, trying to remain ever optimistic. “They love you more than anything, Cecil.”

  
Cecil didn’t say anything, but yet Steve felt that the silence gave him more of an understanding of the radio host than any words could have.

  
“You have me.” Steve offered, a last ditch effort. He didn’t think Cecil would appreciate it, not with the way he felt about Steve.

  
But- what was that?

  
Steve was shocked by the sound, but it was unmistakable.

  
Cecil was crying.

  
He was _crying_.

  
“I’m sorry-” he whispered. “I’m sorry-”

  
Steve moved toward him, and Cecil didn’t pull back or move away. Even more surprising, Cecil allowed Steve to hug him. To place his arms around the other man’s shaking, sobbing frame. To provide comfort in the unique way that came only from human contact. The kind of comfort that could not be matched, no matter how hard anyone tried, no matter what anyone did. To simply be near him in the closest way that Cecil could be near another person. To simply be near him in the closest way that anyone could be near another person.

  
And in that hug- which lasted for seconds that seemed like hours, but were, in reality, minutes- Steve felt a strange sort of desperation from Cecil. The kind of desperation that Cecil never showed. It felt, to Steve, like a cry for help. Finally, a cry for help, after years of insisting that a radio host was self-reliant.

  
And in that cry for help, Cecil choked out another, final, “I’m sorry-” That struggled against the perpetual trickle of alcohol in his throat.


End file.
